


Dancing With Ben Hall

by scoradh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1324768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoradh/pseuds/scoradh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Harry, fighting Dark Lords is a job that goes hand in hand with occupational hazards. Such as, for example, accidentally breaking through to another dimension where Lucius Malfoy is the King of England. </p><p>Written in March 2006. Permanent WIP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing With Ben Hall

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the title of a book by Jackie French. The book is about Australian bushrangers. The fic isn't. Who knows.

I: A Minor Miscalculation

Many words, most of them derived from four-letter adjectives, could be used to describe the feeling. However, Harry later settled on 'a world of hurts' as the term that best encapsulated _exactly_ what it felt like to be hit with a simple Banishing Charm through seventeen dimensions.

It had of course been Hermione's idea to hold the final duel with Voldemort in what she called 'potential space' and what Ron called 'Harry lying on the floor groaning and clutching his head like he's got a really bad dose of constipation in his brain.'

"You see, Harry," said Hermione, as patiently as someone mopping a brow with a damp cloth and thumbing though crumbling reference books thicker than an elephant's instep at the same time _could_ , "it's been a long accepted theory that time has a width as well as a depth. In other words, all those things you didn't do, all the paths you turned away from --"

"All the seconds you turned down because you were sure that you couldn't fit in another bite," Ron mused.

"Yes, that --"

"Or all the times you didn't bother to change your underwear because it was still practically fresh and you had no clean sets left."

"Thank you, Ron, for providing us with that spectacularly graphic image!" snapped Hermione. " _As I was saying_ \--"

"Or all the chances you had to put baking soda in Percy's tea instead of sugar but couldn't because Mum was giving you the eagle eye."

"Permission granted to hurt Ron with a book," croaked Harry. His voice rasped in his inner throat like a metal file over a flower petal. He couldn't _remember_ doing much talking. The space between the dimensions was full of heat and colour, but speech seemed something of an irrelevance. Back in reality, however, that was not the case. According to Hermione, he'd been doing a lot of shouting and thrashing around.

"Harry!" Hermione sounded scandalised. "As if I'd do something like that to a _book_!" She tossed the wet cloth at Ron's face, displaying a beautifully keen control of brute force. The effect was much the same as that of ground-to-air missile on a marshmallow.

Over Ron's whimpers, Hermione continued espousing the merits of time evolution, or perhaps it was poached eggs -- Harry was too tired to concentrate. He drifted in and out of sleep, catching fragments as darkness seeped in through the windows.

"-- essentially suggests that in all the possible realities that can exist --"

"-- thousands created in the turning of seconds --"

"-- one in which Voldemort did not exist, or was defeated, or was killed, or grew up to be a chartered accountant --"

"-- magic does not always have to exist --"

"-- no need to throw it at me, Hermione. It had Harry's _sweat_ all over it. He may very well piss gold and shit opals, but he's got sweat like soup."

"-- sue _Witch Weekly_ \--"

"-- need to find the world where Voldemort isn't, and somehow push him into it, or find one where you vanquished him and ask your other self how --"

"-- completely impossible, Hermione!"

"-- and what choice do we have?"

"Harry, dear. You must wake up. You've got to go back under."

There was such a _lot_ of colour, Harry remembered.

::

::

Hermione looked down at her lap and found it full of her jeans-covered legs, but categorically empty of anything Harry-shaped. She swivelled her head wildly around the room, as if in the space of five nanoseconds Harry could have run away and hidden under the bed.

She looked at Ron blankly. Her boyfriend was wearing a look of profound shock, and for once Hermione didn't think it had anything to do with his natural state of being.

"He's _gone_!"

::

::

Technically, it was earlier the same day. However, everyone who possessed watches would have said it was nine o'clock and always had been, ever since it was eight o'clock, and they'd have been right.

They also, if they wished to remain in favour at the Court of St Elton, would have been wearing the _only_ fashionable watch of the season. This was a gold-embellished confection of a timepiece, which brought strongly to mind the words 'twiddly bits.' Hot on their heels would have been the next prose it inspired, which was 'rare, precious and wildly expensive gems.'

King Lucius, first of his name, considered himself a leader in fashion, as in politics ('Do what I say'), foreign policy ('Do what I say, only in foreign') and romance ('Lie back and think of England, and also do what I say'). He was, to be fair, as reasonable and just as any a past King of England, which was to say he was of French extraction, mad as bat with diurnal ocular difficulties and prone to fits of abominably un-gentlemen-like behaviour.

However, the English liked a laugh as much as any other monarchy in Europe. They also prided themselves on owning a trim and impeccably garbed king. In that sense His Royal Majesty King Lucius stood in direct contrast to the other heads of state in the British Isles, usually with both high-heeled feet turned out in a becoming fashion.

There was His Rather Royal, But Really One Of The People, Majesty King 'You can call me Albus' Dumbledore of Scotland, who had a beard so wild and bushy that a herd of sheep could have got lost in it and not been discovered for a week. According to reliable sources in dark pubs, this was reputedly a fortunate occurrence in the barren wastes of the North.

Wales had been a staunchly Catholic country for hundreds of years, and so the person who did the waving from carriages was His Grace the Archbishop of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. In times past, when he went by the name of Snotty Severus, he and King Lucius had won many a battle for the lunch money of tinchy first-years on the playing fields of Eton. They'd gone up to Corpus Christi in the same year, at which point Severus had discovered God -- or at least, how much God got paid in terms of penal indulgences, envelopes after funeral masses and before conducting wedding ceremonies, and the odd solid silver chalice or sapphire-studded reliquary. His Grace had hair the same colour and texture as an earthworm's snot and was reputed to only bathe every Easter Sunday.

Across the water Dustin, High King of Tara, held court. Either the Irish were very easy going when it came to the species of their sovereign, or they hadn't yet realised that they were being ruled by a talking turkey. With the Irish, or rather with the Irish plus the three extra pints of Guinness every Irish person had in their circulatory system, it was hard to tell. However, all were agreed that Dustin's queen was a woman of rare beauty. Grainne Seoige was her name, and she had been one of the most powerful of the clan of Sky Weather Witches before consenting to wed the High King. Or a turkey. Or both.

So all in all, King Lucius was the best of a pretty bad lot. He had firm calves that were shown to perfection in the current fad for tights and breeches, and he'd taken great care to institute the trend so that this should be so. His hair shone brighter than his vast collection of crowns and he had almost more hairdressers, jewellers and couturiers in his retinue than in the entire borough of Soho. This neatly balanced his habit of cutting the heads off people, servants, house-elves and frogs that annoyed him, and passing edicts such as the Bloody Great Rule Against People Rustling Sweet Papers At The Theatre And Then Not Giving Me Any, And They Damn Well Should Have Because, As I Would Jolly Well Like To Remind The House, I Am The _King_.

There were any number of onion kings on the continent, but English people lived very happy lives pretending that there was no such thing as France. Their king was much the same, except when it came to wine or invading somewhere because he was bored.

It was widely known that the Royal Coffers took rent from half of London. It was less widely known, but equally as profitable for said coffers, that the King owned all of Shropshire. In fact, while the King was exceptionally good at spending this income on things like rare and exotic tropical houseplants (so that he could plant them in the garden and punish the house-elves when they died), he was one of the many people who didn't know the embarrassing fact about Shropshire. As far as the King was concerned, life happened in Diagon Palace, Windsor Manor in Wiltshire, and his country estate of Hogwarts in Scotland. What happened outside these places was anyone's guess, and probably had something to do with boiled potatoes.

At that moment, the King was breaking his fast with his only son and heir, the Prince Regent. Traditionally, when a King and a Regent dined, protocol granted them seats of equal honour at the head and end of the table. The fact that the table in the Great Ballroom was seventy yards long, and that there was no one else at it because the Queen was still in bed with a rotten hangover, were particulars that the King absolutely refused to take into account. He was a stickler for etiquette, even if it did mean having a relay of house-elves at the ready to ask his son to pass the salt.

The fact that Draco had turned up to dine dressed in a white shirt, leather breeches and a worn riding jacket was annoying the King. The ruffles on Draco's shirt were the only things standing between him and the appearance of an utter prole, and even they looked a bit ratty and weren't so much as dyed an exciting colour. Not only was Draco not sporting what was without doubt the most delectable watch _du jour_ \-- or so Pettigrew, the King's current favourite watchmaker, had assured him -- but his entire outfit was bereft of the smallest piece of jewellery. Worst of all, he wasn't wearing his royal insignia.

In between sending his eggs back because they weren't the right shade of yellow and claiming his wine to be 'poorly disguised horse's piss' and tipping it over the footman's head, the King thumbed his well-worn copy of _Mrs Skower's All Purpose Guide to Correct Etiquette._ Much to his disgust, he couldn't find anything that suggested the Prince Regent should wear peacock feathers and cloth-of-gold to an informal breakfast with his father, not even to match said father who just _happened_ to be the King.

After parsing a whole chapter devoted to addressing senior members of the clergy, and snorting, "'s easy, I just go to Severus 'Do what I say or I shall cut your bloody head off,'" the King decided that enough was enough. He summoned his butler and gave him _Mrs Skower's All Purpose Guide to Correct Etiquette_ , with instructions to find another and better one after he'd eaten the first.

"Very good, your Majesty," said the butler, bowing deeply. The King hit him over the head with his goblet for not bowing deeply enough and gestured for a house elf to attend him. The creature saw which way the wind was blowing that morning and bowed so low that its long nose cut a swath through the carpet.

"Tell my son why he isn't attired in something suitable for the occasion!" snapped the King.

"At once, your Majesty." The house elf paused, trembling. It had been years since the King had touched a bow or sword, but his aim with cutlery was second to none. "Your Majesty, what is the reason you required me to tell your son, his Royal Highness the Prince Regent?"

"Eh?"

"The reason, your Majesty." The house elf was quivering so badly that his face resembled a turnip hanging on a washing line. "Your Majesty said to tell your son, his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, why he isn't attired in something suitable for the occasion."

"Yes? _And_? Why are you still here, you infernal thorn in my royal backside?"

"But, your Majesty," the creature wailed, "I do not know why his Royal Highness the Prince Regent is not attired in something suitable for the occasion!"

"Damn your eyes!" roared the King, rising from his seat like a late-night curry from the morning after stomach. "I've half a mind to stab them out! What is the meaning of this impertinence?"

"I rather think, Dobby, that my royal father doesn't know what it is to 'ask' for something," said a dry voice. Draco, who had been approaching unnoticed for the last twenty or so yards, came to a halt before the King's heavily ornamented chair. He sketched a bow, his blonde hair falling into his eyes in what the King felt was a most insolent manner.

"And who gave _you_ permission to have someone cut your hair?" the King demanded of his Regent. "Do not you know that the fashion is for hair 'well past the shoulder, and gathered into a bow, velvet for preference, silk if otherwise, and cotton in plain colours for tradesmen'?"

"Father, even if I _did_ know I should think it desperately unlikely that I would _care_." Draco braced a hand on the damask-covered tabletop and reached over to spear a fried tomato from one of the King's side plates with one of the King's very own twenty forks. Lucius verily swelled with the unbridled impudence of it all.

"Besides," added Draco, "I _didn't_ get someone to cut my hair. I did it myself."

"Good grief." Lucius eyed Draco with the same reluctant admiration and apprehension one would bestow upon a naked crocodile wrestler. "And how did you do that, pray?"

"I got hold of this amazing invention called a 'sci-ssors,'" said Draco, "and I practised for ages until I got the hang of 'cut-ting' with them, and then I used it on my hair, and voilà ! Here we are! It was shockingly easy, after I mastered the basics."

Lucius considered this for a moment, decided that as it was beyond his comprehension it was probably treasonous, and said, "I should have you horsewhipped, sir!"

"For what? Dastardly and devious use of a pair of scissors?" Draco bit into the tomato, dribbling juice on to his chin, and smirked.

The expression reminded Lucius uncomfortably of the memorable occasion of the Royal Family's first -- and last -- group portrait. Prior to the sitting, Lucius had done some piddling little thing to make Draco angry. Oh, Lucius could hardly remember what it was now. Perhaps deporting a family of servants to the Americas because he'd discovered one of his favourite antique chamber pots missing.

It turned out that Draco was close friends with the son of the family, which was _wildly_ inappropriate in any case. Draco had found out about Lucius' sentence on the same day as Lucius unearthed the chamber pot in the Green Antechamber, where it had been all along. Mixing up the Green Antechamber and the Sort Of Purplish-Pink Drawing Room, which were in different wings on different sides of the palace, was the sort of mistake anyone could make. However, Draco could be dreadfully _wilful_ at times -- not to mention more bull-headed than a cow with horns -- and he had refused to be placated by Lucius' explanation.

Lucius had wonderful things planned for that portrait, such as a grand unveiling in St Elton's Court followed by a wine and cheese reception back at the Palace. It wasn't the sort of thing an eight-year-old child needed to bother his head about, but Draco had always had an uncanny way of finding out things he wasn't supposed to know.

Her Royal Majesty Queen Narcissa would have been called a raging alcoholic if she hadn't, in fact, been Her Royal Majesty Queen Narcissa of England. As such, she was reputed to indulge in the odd tipple that, purely by chance, made her bang into furniture, put her crowns on the cats and declare in a slurred voice that, "By golly, Spoono, I loved that girl." She hadn't taken much notice of her son since the day he was born, on which occasion he turned out to be a slight inconvenience to her. By a strange coincidence, his evil plans quite passed her by.

Lucius _had_ noticed that the painter seemed on the verge of laughter during the entire sitting. However, Dean Thomas was a practising wizard and that was a very unusual thing in these liberated times. Some eccentricity was to be expected.

The servants kept as silent as the tomb, as they were specifically ordered to be by Lucius himself. This did not stop him putting each and every one of them on dwarf bread and Thames water rations for a month afterwards.

As for Lucius himself, well, he was wearing ornate and heavy robes of state in a very flattering shade of green. Resisting the temptation to straighten the clasp in the shape of the Royal Crest every five minutes, as Dean had asked for them to keep quite still, was enough to keep Lucius occupied for the two hours. He could hardly have been expected to realise that the heir to the throne, damn his royal arse, had covered his finger in horse glue and stuck it up his nose for the entire duration of the sitting.

Draco's screams as a team of house elves endeavoured to pull his finger out afterwards had almost made Lucius feel better, but, oddly enough, Draco had seemed to be smirking the entire time. Much as he was now.

Draco turned to the elf, who was prostrating itself on the floor. The carpet was so thick that he could have been mistaken for a bump in the floorboards underneath. "Dobby, be so good as to fetch Cornelius for me. And ready my fencing things."

"At once, your Royal Highness the Prince Regent!" squeaked the elf. It disappeared with a quiet pop.

"I do believe you used _French_ ," said the King. Now he'd got the idea of whipping his son into his head, he quite fancied trying it out. He had a vague suspicion that Draco would somehow wriggle out of it, but Lucius was nothing if not willing to cling on to an idea long after it had died a natural death and his attachment to it took on shades of necrophilia.

"Did I? And that's a crime now, is it?" Draco raised one fine eyebrow. Lucius resolved to find a way to subtly ask his son who plucked them for him. They were much nicer than Lucius' own. Perhaps he'd better pass an edict banning eyebrow plucking for everyone except the royal person of the King of England.

"It is now I've bloody well invaded them again," blustered Lucius. "Talking in Froggie language is tantamount to a crime against the state!"

"I never knew you spoke it, Father." Draco studied his nails.

"Of course I don't, you damn fool boy! Would I commit a crime against my own state?"

"Well then." Draco flashed him a winning smile. "How do you know I was speaking French? For your information, 'voilà ' is Serbo-Croat."

"Serbo what now?"

"It is a country in the West Indies, Your Majesty, governed by a carrot. Their national costume consists of pineapple leaves fetchingly arranged to leave room for their traditional peppermint spears. Its principle exports are voluptuous prostitutes and sexual diseases. Its people worship a small piece of coal, and there are only two men of above-par intelligence in the whole population." Draco paused. "In fact, it bears many striking similarities to England. Perhaps you should consider invading, or marrying me to the Head Tribeswoman."

"And where did you learn all this nonsense?" demanded Lucius. "I mean, principal export? What the hell's that when it's at home? An _im_ port?" He chuckled at his own wit.

Draco gave him a long, cool look, of the sort perfected by monks who had reached a zen-like state of complete connection with the universe or most polar bears. "Indeed, sir. You are completely correct. As for where I, ah, learned this, I had a history tutor for a spell, before you decided that his brocade waistcoat was embroidered with the wrong sort of gilt thread and had him summarily executed."

"Egad, I did?" The King felt a little uneasy. It was one thing to kill house elves who were tardy with his toast, but history tutors could have gone to Oxford Brookes University, which was practically in the same country as his alma mater, Oxford University. It was doubtless very bad etiquette indeed.

"Yes. However, you rescinded your decision a week later."

"Really? That _is_ unlike me."

"Yes, but I believe that was the period in which you were troubled in your mind. Something about --" Draco coughed into his fist "-- ghosts in the bathtub?"

"By George, I remember those!" The King shuddered, accidentally rubbing off his rouge in distress. "That was jolly awful!"

"I can _well_ imagine, Father." Draco's eyes suddenly went from slate to ash. "But Remus said it was too dangerous for him to stay, all the same. I believe he went to France ..."

"Best place for him." The King nodded. "Should fit in well. Don't believe those Frenchie bastards even wear waistcoats."

"I can barely conceive of the horror," replied Draco.

"I must say, your marriage idea has merit, my son." The King tapped at his mouth, quite forgetting that it would ruin his lipstick. Perhaps this make-up lark had been a bad move, vogue-wise. "Come, walk with me, and we shall discuss brides."

In turning to powder his nose in one of the gilt mirrors lining the ballroom, Lucius failed to notice that, with a wave of his hand, Draco had made the forks line up so that they spelled 'THE KING IS A TIT.'

"But of course, Father. Where shall we walk to?"

"Oh." Lucius pondered this for a while. "Well, one foot in front of the other always works for me." His eyes lit on the cutlery. "By gum, would you look at that!"

"At what, Father?"

"Those forks!" Lucius laughed heartily. "They are quite out of dining order! Where's my butler? I think I shall have him castrated for this one."

"You didn't happen to notice ... anything else?"

Lucius stared at the forks for a time, then narrowed his eyes. "Yes! The third from last on the left sports a minute difference in the hand-tooled vine leaves. Shocking." He smiled at his son. Draco's devotion to duty wiped the sin of his complete lack of fashion-sense from the King's mind. "I commend you."

"Really? To what deity or institution?"

"Oh, just generally commenditing. I fancy we shall take a stroll in the Cloisters. What say you?"

"Whatever my royal father commands." Draco swept a deep bow. Lucius noted with approval that he'd got the hand flick just right, although the fact that his shoulders were shaking so badly somewhat ruined the effect.

"Miggins!" bawled Lucius. "Fetch the Prince his wildly unfashionable jacket. I fear he is taking a chill. Also some mulled wine, but without any cloves, you horrible little man. And my muffler."

"Perhaps it would be easier to stay here and talk?" ventured Draco.

"Nonsense! You look rather peaky, my son. A brisk trot in the fresh air will do you a world of good." Lucius sniffed. "Also my wool-shot-with-samite cloak, Miggins. Chop chop."

 

II: A Proposal Of Marriage

Father and son stood in the Cloisters, if the term 'stood' could legally be stretched that far. Lucius was huddled near the door, heaped with so many furs and cloaks that he resembled a walking thoroughfare to Narnia. In hands rendered several sizes larger by the addition of pony skin gloves, he held a steaming goblet of spiced wine. At the far end of the cloister several servants stood at the ready, armed with all the hot drinks Lucius could think to list in five minutes or less.

Draco, on the other hand, leaned against one of the glassless window-frames as if he'd been born to lounge and loaf and laze and other things beginning with L. He'd always found it wise to seem rather bored of everything and act as if the world were completely unsupportable. It didn't matter that, most of the time, he dearly wished he could set off some of the fireworks that were always whizzing about in his brain.

In English society generally, and in the court of King Lucius I especially, people who acted and spoke with fervour, passion and belief were looked down upon as being rather vulgar or even -- the ultimate social suicide -- common. In Draco's case, he'd be common _and_ dangerous, neither of which were especially good things for a Prince Regent to be.

"I'faith, I am quite convinced. It is high time you were wed!" Lucius declared. "After all, you are almost -- how old are you again?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Nearly twenty, Your Majesty."

"Good God, _really_?"

"I am reasonably certain, yes."

Lucius narrowed his eyes at him. "Are you sure you aren't your mother's very much younger illegitimate child? Say, ten years younger? I'm sure I'm not old enough to have a twenty-year-old son."

"I hope that is not a certainty to which you have cleaved with any great deal of assiduity, Father." Into the bleak silence, Draco added, "That is to say, I'm sorry, but I _will_ be turning twenty in a few months' time. It truly can't be helped."

"Well, you certainly need to be married soon! I was married at --" Lucius' lips moved with the strain of rapid calculation "-- four, after all, and you were born when I was ... five, so I myself am only twenty-five --"

"No, Father." Draco sighed. "I was born in 1980, when you were thirty-three. This makes you almost _fifty-three_ at this point. Basic mathematics. If you have thirty-three beans --"

"I shan't have any damn peasant beans! Exclusive Belgian chocolates, if you must, sir."

"What, we aren't at war with Belgium?" said Draco under his breath. Louder, he said, "Very well, thirty-three exclusive Belgian chocolates , plus --"

"The truffle assortment. With the little twirly bits of caramel on the top."

Draco gave it up as a bad job. In some small ways, His Royal Majesty the King of England could be remarkably astute.

"I don't think it would be a good idea for me to get married," said Draco. He wasn't usually so blunt. An iron fist in a velvet glove, surrounded by a tissue of lies and a dirty hanky of misdirection, tended to go down far better.

However, he was feeling impatient. There was something in the air that morning that spoke to Draco's skin, telling it to tingle in a most illogical manner. And Draco was sure he kept getting the scent of the sea, which was frankly ridiculous. The closest Diagon Palace came to the sea was the kitchen after the cooks had been to the fish market.

"You dare defy me!"

"You may recall, Father -- if it's not too terrible a mental strain for you -- that I was the one who suggested it in the first place." Irritably, Draco flicked a piece of mortar from crumbling stonework he was leaning against through the window. It bounced off the head of one of hundreds of shivering house elves, who were warming a Hairy Acronychia and several white sandpaper figs with their breath in an futile effort to keep the frost from killing them.

"By jove, was it? Why the ruddy hell did you suggest it then, if you don't want to?"

"I never said that, Your Highness."

"You did too!"

"On the contrary, I said it would not be a good idea." Draco paused. "I fear there is no one suitable for me to wed."

"Never fear, my son. I'm sure we'll rustle up a duchess or two in short order. Why, your mother was no princess when I married her!"

"She still isn't, she's the queen," said Draco.

"I mean, she was only a Countess of the Noble House of Black, quite a minor line." The King had a faultless memory for lineage, although it sometimes took him an hour to recall where he'd put his house elf prod.

"So what induced you to marry her?" asked Draco.

It was a question that was of minor interest to Draco. His parents saw each other about once a month, if they happened to be in the same residence when the other was hosting some sort of gathering. Any interaction that took place between them was fraught with the same kind of disguised peril as would imbue light banter between a lion and a gazelle.

The Queen was liable to treat the King as she would one of her cats, by stroking the vermine on his robes of state and telling him dreamily not to do his business in the priceless Ming vases, there were litter boxes for that. By the end of any conversation with his wife the King looked fit to burst with the repressed desire to order her head chopped off, and had to relieve his feelings by upending the punch over a tea-girl and making the jester do a humorous skit with the bowl.

In the present time, the King's face had gone soft. "Do you know ... I couldn't tell you. Can't bloody well remember. Something about starlit nights and rose gardens and your mother dressed all in white. Putting flowers in your hair and wearing almost see-through gowns was terribly popular back in those days. And your mother's flowers never seemed to fall out or wilt like everyone else's did."

"So you married her for her amazing skills at botany," said Draco flatly.

"That, and the fact that I could see through her dress." The King chortled. "That's the sort of thing that can make a lad forget his head completely and do all manner of rash things!"

"Indeed, sir." Draco flicked some more mortar out of the window, aiming carefully to avoid hitting any more elves.

"Although _you_ do not, my son. I don't believe I've _ever_ heard tell of you getting caught _in flagrante delicto_ with two housemaids and a flagon of chocolate syrup." Lucius pulled his fox-fur tighter around his neck and slurped some wine.

"That may well be because it's never happened," said Draco. "I have more urgent demands upon my time."

"What? Fencing, archery, hawks? Reading all those books?" The King shook his empty goblet at the servants, one of whom came rushing forward. "Demmed unnatural, if you ask me."

"And yet, I didn't," sighed Draco. "If you like, you can imagine that I am keeping myself chaste for my future bride."

"Let's be clear, you now want to get married?"

"Nothing could be further from the truth. Your Highness, I exist only to serve your will."

"You do?" The King tossed his goblet at the servant, and looked very disappointed when the man caught it. "Some cocoa this time, and make it a bit snappier than your cravat."

"Well, _yes_ , Father." Draco felt a little irritated. He'd spent years carefully cultivating an outward appearance of being perfectly civil towards his father, whilst actually thwarting his will at every turn. He had not expected Lucius to develop the acumen to realise this, however. "What did you think I was around for?"

"To make me look pretty by comparison," said Lucius, "and to remind me daily that there are still men in England who have not realised how well they can look in silk breeches and shoes with pom-poms on them. Which, frankly, is rather a good thing. If there was anyone who turned a better leg than I they would have to be shot."

"I fear that would not be the most effective method, Father. The cannons are still rather erratic in their aim."

"Good." The King sounded satisfied. "That'd teach 'em to wear nicer hose than me, wouldn't it?"

"Do you know, Father," said Draco, "I do believe it _would_."

"And of course you happen to be my only legitimate heir and will get the throne after my death. Which reminds me, I must finalise my funeral outfit with the couturier."

Draco was taken aback for a moment. "You have planned what to wear to your own funeral?"

"In detail. It wouldn't do to have all those grieving peasants to see me not looking my absolute best, now would it?"

"It could be argued that, by that point, 'best' would be a rather fallacious and misleading term," murmured Draco. "However, I'm sure His Highness knows what he is doing."

"Yes, and I'm sure I do too, so that's settled. I'm still torn between the purple silk bloomers or the black ones with silver snakes around the hem. Purple is a wonderful colour on me, but it could be argued that black is more appropriate for a funeral. What say you, Draco?"

Draco bowed. "You will excuse me if I take a few days to consider the question?"

"But of course, my boy." Lucius beamed. "I'm pleased to see that you are finally ready to take heed of the important matters of court."

"Your approval warms the cockles of my heart," drawled Draco.

There came a sudden clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Draco tamped down a smile of genuine warmth -- it would not do for his father to know that he could do such a thing -- and turned to face the source of the sound.

"Ah, Cornelius," said Draco, inclining his head. He was careful to keep his expression neutral.

Lucius was staring at Cornelius in most impolite curiosity. "Is this another of your pets, Draco?"

Cornelius tilted his head minutely in Draco's direction, his eyes flashing. "How extraordinary, Draco," he said, in his fathoms-deep voice. "I was just about to ask you the same question."

It took a number of seconds for the insult to reach the mostly cognizant parts of the King's brain, but when it did, it made up for lost time with a vengeance. "Why, impertinent wretch! Do you know who I am?"

Cornelius scratched his roan flank, looking bored. "You are apparently Draco's father, which I account as a most unfortunate occurrence for him. Apart from the excellent bone structure, which is about the only commendable thing he has inherited from you."

"I say --" the King roared, and then paused. "Would you really say excellent?"

"Yes." Cornelius' expression barely flickered. "It almost makes up for the fact that your eyes are too close together -- but not quite."

"Enough, Cornelius," said Draco. He struggled not to let his amusement show. "Father, this is Cornelius. He is my newest ... teacher. Cornelius, may I present His Royal Highness King Lucius the First of England?"

Cornelius swished his long tail. "You could, but only if you included a receipt so I could bring him back to the shop afterwards."

"Teacher, you say?" Lucius eyed Cornelius speculatively. "Of what, precisely?"

"Oh, this and that." Draco's voice was vague, a brilliant technique he'd picked up from spending time with his mother. It usually helped to bring along malt whiskey on these maternal visits, for practice and to prevent her from attacking him with a feline. "A touch of astronomy, a little star-gazing, perhaps the odd lesson on kicking someone's kidneys out through their ears ..." He beamed winningly at his father. "Nothing truly worthy of your royal notice, Father. As you can see, Cornelius doesn't go in for clothes all that much."

"Yes, well." Lucius waved a hand that was so be-ringed that his fingers drooped under the strain. "Be off with you, then. In a few days I will send you a runner with the shortlist of duchesses and whatnot."

"Very good, Your Majesty." Draco gave his father a truncated bow. He was never able to pull off a deep one unless he was purposely being ironic about it. Fortunately, his status as Prince Regent meant that there were only two people of higher rank than him in the country, and they had not yet noticed this particular quirk of their son's.

Cornelius swished his tail again. This could be taken as a small sign of respect to his nominal ruler. Draco, however, was in a position to see the flies.

When they were out of sight of the King, Draco held up his hand. Palm to palm, Cornelius returned the greeting in the ancient manner of the centaurs.

"By Saturn and all the satellites, now I know what you meant." Cornelius shook his head. "How do you put up with him, Draco?"

"I have my ways." Draco smiled secretly. "I'm glad you got the chance to meet him. I've found it advisable to make friends with people my father would find hard to kill."

"What did he mean by a list of duchesses?" asked Cornelius. "Do you hunt them for sport?"

"An admirable idea, but no. He was referring to my choice of future bride." Draco pushed back the frills on his shirt-cuffs. He disliked them intensely, but they were so fashionable at the moment that finding the Holy Grail, bundled up with the Emerald Tablet and a bit of the True Cross and gathering dust bunnies under one's bed, would have been a good sight easier than locating a plain shirt.

"You're letting that -- that _idiot_ pick out your wife?" spluttered Cornelius. "Draco, are you feeling quite well?"

"I am always in perfect health, thank you." Draco succeeded in hiding most of the lace under the ends of his jacket. He looked up into Cornelius' face, which was an interesting shade of magenta. "What's wrong?"

"I confess, I am bewildered. Do you know what it will mean, to have your father choose the woman with whom you are going to spend the rest of your life?"

"Of course I do. It will keep him occupied for _months_ \-- the rest of the year, if I'm lucky. Not to mention that he will regard this as a sign of my becoming more biddable, which will only bode well for spoiling his other plans." Draco paused. "As for the rest of my life, _hardly,_ my dear Cornelius. I daresay I could get away without seeing my wife above three or four times a year. We have plenty of property to keep such a woman occupied. Jewels and maids and so on. She will scarcely need me at all."

"Continuation of the royal line may require your presence," said Cornelius dryly.

"Ah, but that's the beauty of it, you see! My father is renowned for his promiscuity. It is _highly_ unlikely that he would choose a bride for me who did not fulfil his own qualifications regarding female desirability. Thus, when it comes to providing an heir, I can manoeuvre my father into doing that for me as well. He is not going to contest my claim to the child of such a union -- and it would still be legitimate." Draco beamed, pleased with his own cunning.

Cornelius looked as though Draco had spontaneously transformed into a small troupe of amateur Morris-dancing pixies.

"You don't see any ... flaws in such a plan?" Cornelius tugged at his beard, a small frown line riveting his brow.

"Oh, of course," said Draco. "The girl he chooses will be unfailingly stupid and, I daresay, utterly insufferable to boot. However that _could_ be a blessing in disguise. After all, the last thing I need is an intelligent wife."

"Draco, may I be frank with you?"

"Of course. It was one of my main reasons for engaging you as a tutor, if you recall."

"Then hear me now." Cornelius brought all four hooves to a graceful halt and placed his hands on Draco's shoulders. "I readily confess that many human habits are a great mystery to me. The business of drinking tea, for example, or eating very small cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. However, there are some things that transcend species, and sex is one of them."

"Are you going to tell me where babies come from?" asked Draco suspiciously. "Because I filched the key to my father's library of banned erotica when I was about seven. Ergo, I think I have a fair idea of the logistics."

"That only makes what I'm about to ask all the more strange," said Cornelius. "Draco, have you never desired to ... try it out for yourself?"

Draco had always regarded himself as a man of the world -- or at least the part of the world that bathed regularly and owned whole rooms full of riding boots. However, he couldn't help but blush. "If you are referring to night-time manipulation, then ... then I think I shall leave you to work that out for yourself."

"Well, that's reassuring. But I gather that it is natural for humans to want to copulate with one another. My home is a wood that grows whole carpets of bluebells in spring, and human males are charmingly predicable in these matters. I flatter myself I know a little of the subject. Have you never desired to lie with a _woman_?"

"I've lied to plenty of women. It's part of what makes my life so full of joy."

"No, Draco. I mean -- this is a good deal less complicated in whinnies, let me tell you -- is there no woman that has fired you? One shared look that makes you want to kiss her, touch her, mount her?" Cornelius sighed. "How much clearer can I make this? Would you like me to sketch a little diagram?"

"No, I think I'll cope," said Draco distantly. Certain carefully-concealed emotions were stirring in his hindbrain. "Would this firing include things such as ... oh, accidentally brushing their hand whilst in conversation with them, and feeling a strong urge to kiss each of their fingers so they make that little sighing noise that usually means they've read some piece of unintelligible poetry --"

"I think we're straying into cucumber sandwich territory here, but yes. This is a relief. I was starting to think you were a man of no desires at all."

"Oh, I have desires." Draco's mouth twisted. "Would you mind if we postponed our lesson till the morrow? I suddenly feel fatigued."

"Fatigued, eh?" Cornelius quirked an eyebrow. "I take it that's human for 'I need to see a girl about a shag,' is it?"

"Don't be so crude," snapped Draco. "And of course it's not. I don't know any girls like _that_."

Cornelius looked confused. "But you just said -- all that about licking and poetry --"

"It was merely a theoretical example." Draco sniffed loftily. "It seems to _me_ that all these desires would quite get in the way of leading a prudent and rational life. I am grateful to you for warning me in time."

Draco turned on his heel and walked off, leaving Cornelius shaking his head.

He waited until he was several corridors away before he let himself shudder.


End file.
